Curing Murder
by Nomis
Summary: A father whose son is dying from a virus feels like the hospital isn't doing enough to cure him. So he injects Steve with the virus, making the case personal for Dr. Sloan as he tries now to not only save one patient, but his son as well.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:__ Screw that. I'm not started up another story with funny ways to say no._

_A/N:__ Man! I told myself I wasn't going to do this! I told myself that just because I got re-interested in a show I used to love when I was younger didn't mean I was going to write a story. I told myself damn it! But what happens? That little obsessive writer in me wouldn't let go of this idea. Wouldn't stop forming the whole story in my head. So I started it… telling myself that I would just write a page, and not save it. Just to get the idea out there so it would stop brewing in my head. But nope! Damn it! So here I am writing this… my first ever Diagnosis Murder story. I have no idea what the reception will be to this story; I'm not sure of this fandom at all. But it's being posted… for one reader or a hundred readers. Or for my infinitely annoying, obsessive brain._

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_Curing Murder_

Mark sighed and looked at his watch; trying to push down the tingle of worry that was creeping up. Steve was only a half hour late. That was nothing! But when your son is a cop, you have a tendency to worry a lot quicker than normal.

"Mark?" the voice was cautious, and pulled the doctor away from his stared-out daze watching the clock.

"Amanda, sorry," Mark forced on a large grin, "I guess I zoned out a bit."

Amanda returned the smile, "He's only a half hour late."

"How'd you know what I was thinking about?" Mark shook his head and followed his friend back into his spacious dining room where Jesse worked on setting the table.

"Because I know _you_," Amanda emphasized.

Mark laughed and attempted to keep himself busy with dinner preparation. The four got together at least three days out of the week to eat dinner or a late lunch together. It was something Mark looked forward to, and he knew Steve, Jesse and Amanda did as well; especially, when like that evening, the group favorite of barbequed ribs were being served. This was the prime reason that he worried when his son wasn't sitting at the table ready to eat before anyone else.

When another half hour crept by, and the food began to get cold, not even Jesse nor Amanda could refuse to acknowledge the absent Sloan.

"Did you try his cell phone?" Jesse questioned.

Mark nodded and spoke through the hand cupped over his mouth, "Yes. No answer."

"How about his work?" Amanda suggested, "That's where he was at; maybe he just got held up with paper work?"

"No," Mark sighed worriedly, "I tried there twice; no answer at the office—it's just the skeleton crew at this hour. And besides, it's not like him not to call if he's going to be late."

The small inkling of worry had grown into full blown panic and Mark was just beginning to think of his next course of action when his phone rang. Jumping out of his seat he got to it in just two rings.

"Steve?" he immediately questioned.

"_Yeah Dad, it's me_," Steve sounded strange.

"Where are you?" Mark demanded, feeling briefly like he did nearly thirty years earlier when he'd reprimand his teenage son for staying out too late.

"_I'll tell you Dad, but you need to just stay calm and not worry, alright?_"

Mark felt a cold pit form in his stomach, "Steve…?"

Steve sighed on the other end, "_I'm at the hospital. There was… an incident… at work today._"

"Are you alright?" Mark's voice shook, "Steve, are you hurt?"

"_I'll be fine,_" Steve insisted, but Mark knew better than to take his son's word on such things, "_I was knocked out, so they think I have a concussion. They want to keep me here for the night I think, but I'll check myself out. I'll be home in—_"

"No," Mark shook his head despite talking on the phone, "Steve stay there. We're coming."

"_Dad you don't have to come, I'm __**fine**__._"

Mark's heart was still pounding in his chest, "You aren't going anywhere until I take a look at you. Now stay put. We'll be there as soon as possible."

~DM~

Steve Slone sat on a hospital bed, playing with the idea of sneaking out. How mad would his Dad be? He was so hungry! He probably had time to sneak to the burger place across the street before they got there. But if he was wrong, and his Dad _did_ get there first there would be more than hell to pay.

Steve sighed.

He felt like a punished child waiting for his time to be up. He always hated hospitals, and hated them even more when he was a patient. He had only been unconscious for fifteen minutes; thirty tops, but when he came to after being attacked on the way to his car at the precinct, the paramedics were already loading him into the ambulance. He had just enough time to tell the officers who had found him _not_ to call his father (God, how he knew his Dad hated those late night 'your-son-has-been-injured' calls!), and let them know that no, he hadn't seen who attacked him.

Tire track marks, and Steve's own blood were the only sign that something went down in the parking lot. Other than that, Steve could only remember unlocking his door to get in his car—the thought of the amazing barbequed ribs his Dad was making on his mind –and then nothing as someone clubbed him over the head.

And now he had to wait.

"Steve!" his Dad's all too familiar worried voice broke the silence less than a half hour later.

"Hi Dad," Steve lamely said.

Mark both frowned and let out a sigh of relief at the sight of his son. His boys' weary grin immediately let the doctor know that Steve was feeling well enough that he didn't want to be there; which was a good sign. But the white gauze that was wrapped around his head worried him slightly. Both Amanda and Jesse walked in behind Mark, looking on intently.

"What happened?" Mark placed a hand on Steve's arm, and looked him in the eyes.

"Someone just decided they weren't too happy with me, that's all," Steve shook his head dismissively, "It's nothing Dad, I swear."

"It says here you were unconscious for a good half hour," Jesse spoke up, Steve's chart in hand, "I wouldn't call that nothing."

"Thanks Jesse," Steve glared.

Mark took the chart, and looked it over himself, concern etched on his face, "Jesse's right Steve. This isn't nothing. It says here you were unconscious when paramedics arrived, and had a pulse of 148, and a blood pressure of 187/108. It shouldn't have been that high."

Immediately Mark took his son's wrist and tracked his pulse.

"Dad…"

"Quiet," Mark bluntly stated staring at his watch.

Simultaneously Jesse attached a blood pressure monitor to Steve's other arm.

"You don't want to get in on this too Amanda?" Steve only half joked.

Amanda looked confused at everything that had been said, "Steve… who would have wanted to hurt you?"

"I'm a police officer. I can think of at least a dozen people off the top of my head who would like to do this to me," Steve nearly laughed.

"Your heart rate is 107," Mark spoke up, "Steve, that's still high. Especially for you."

"Blood pressure 138/90," Jesse's voice was solemn.

"Is that bad?" Steve asked.

"It's not _great_," Jesse frowned.

"I definitely want you staying overnight," Mark took out a pocket light now and began to check each of Steve's pupil reactions, "Both of those are a lot higher than they should be with the medication the nurse's gave you."

"Do I have a choice?" Steve let out an exasperated breath.

He already knew the answer.

~DM~

Mark got two and a half hours of sleep. Maybe three if you counted his 'cat nap' he had in his chair. At Steve's insistence he went home for a couple of hours the evening before, but couldn't shake the feeling there was something wrong. More so than what appeared on the surface. Why was Steve's BP and pulse so high? Why did his toxicology screening show high levels of potassium and nitrogen? Mark planned on running a full diagnostic and physical on his son when he returned to the hospital in the morning.

But he'd never get the chance.

The phone rang at just past three in the morning. Calls in the middle of the night were inherently bad, and before even picking up the call, Mark knew it had to do with Steve.

"Mark Sloan," Mark's voice was rough with sleep, however his eyes were wide as he reached over with one hand to turn on his bedside lamp.

"_Dr. Sloan, it's Gracie_," Mark recognized the name and voice of one of the nurses, "_I'm so sorry to bother you, but you said that if anything unusual happened during the night…_"

"What is it?" the same, sickeningly familiar panicked feeling was creeping back, "How's Steve?"

"_He's got a fever_," Gracie explained almost sympathetically, "_It started about an hour ago, and it's up to 103 now. He's not responding to treatment, and when I went to check on him a few minutes ago… he's started to get a blistered rash on his chest and arms._"

"I'm coming," Mark forced himself calm, "I'm coming right now. In the meantime give him five cc's of accidociclamine, and up his fluids."

"_Yes Doctor._"

Mark broke at least a half dozen driving laws on his way to Community General, but he didn't care. His father instincts had told him something was seriously wrong with his son; he should have never left the hospital! Once inside, he rushed to Steve's room.

"Oh God…" Mark swallowed back the fear at the sight.

"That bad?" Steve mumbled out, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face.

Mark hesitated a moment as he looked. Steve lay half propped up in the hospital bed, even more monitors hooked up to him tracking vitals. His face was flushed and red with his eyes glassed over. The hospital gown that adorned all patients in the hospital had been removed, leaving Steve in his boxers and a loose sheet placed over top of his legs. His entire chest was exposed, and covered in harsh, dark red blisters that worked their way partly down Steve's muscled arms.

"You'll be fine," Mark choked out, grabbing his chart now to look it over.

"Dad, what's happening to me?" Steve licked his dry lips, "I thought it was just a concussion."

"I'm not sure son, but I'll figure it out, I promise," Mark walked to a small table and poured some water into a cup with a straw, "Can you drink?"

Steve nodded his head and weakly, though eagerly, sipped the water his Dad offered. Mark silently then did a check of all the monitors and stats, trying to see if anything jumped out at him. This definitely was not caused by a simple hit on the head, but something yelled at his brain that it was all so familiar. He had seen these symptoms before, but with the dozens of patients a day Mark saw he couldn't pin-point it.

"Steve were you anywhere unusual today?" Mark looked worriedly at his son, "Somewhere where you could have picked up a virus, or breathed in some toxin. Anything?"

Steve shook his head, "No. Just office work."

Mark nodded, and brushed the sweat laden hair from Steve's forehead such as he had when he was younger, "I'm—" Mark was forced to clear his throat, "I'm going to get you something to help you sleep, and with any pain."

"Okay."

Mark knew it was bad if his tough as nails son didn't argue about sleep and pain medication.

"Don't worry son, you'll be alright," Mark assured as he left the room.

The doctor barely made it to the reception desk when he was forced to stop, and limply placed his head in palms. This was bad; he knew that. Steve's blood pressure and heart rate were steadily climbing even with the preventative medication; at this rate he would stoke out before morning came.

"Mark!"

Dr. Sloan turned his head to see Jesse running over, "Jesse, thank God."

"What's going on?" Jesse's eyes were wide, "I got a call from the nurse that Steve is getting worse."

"He is," Mark confirmed, "Bad fever, high BP and pulse and then his tox screen is all over the place. But Jesse… I recognize all of these symptoms."

"From where?" Jesse frowned.

"I'm not sure, but I'm positive we've seen this before," Mark shook his head in frustration, "I want you to go through all the patients we've had admitted in the past week. Look for anything similar to Steve's condition. I don't care how small the similarity."

"Right," Jesse nodded and took off at a jog towards admittance.

Mark quickly put in the order for Steve's medication and immediate move to ICU, and then walked towards the staff room. He knew that until all of this was figured out, sleep was out of the question. Coffee, on the other hand, was an immediate must.

The room was quiet with no one inside when Mark entered. The coffee machine sat empty on the table, and he was just about to take out the jug to fill with water when he noticed a single white envelope on one of the tables. This wouldn't have been so unusual normally; people often forgot papers or letters in the room during their break. But neatly typed on the outside were the words '_**Dr. Mark Sloan**_'. The coffee completely forgotten, Mark opened up the envelope and read the single-page typed letter inside;

**Doctor Sloan,**

** I'm terribly sorry. We're not sure what is wrong with your son, but we'll do everything we can to figure it out. In the meantime we'll make him as comfortable as possible. All we can do is wait.**

** These useless words were spoken to me two weeks ago Doctor Sloan. Useless garbage. My son is going to die and all you can give me are these hopeless words. Your job is to cure the sick. But you've stopped trying, haven't you?**

** Well now perhaps you'll try a little harder. I have injected **_**your**_** son with the same illness that I know my son was infected with. So now, Doctor Sloan, maybe you'll take this a little more seriously. Because if my son dies… so will yours.**

…**to be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:__ Yup. Oh wait, I mean no._

_A/N:__ Ha! Awesome. At first there was no reviews for this, and I was okay with that… it's not a popular fandom, but I was still having fun. Then I got one, then another, and another… and soon eight. Thanks guys! Apparently the world of Diagnosis Murder is not totally lost… which is brilliant! So here is chapter two. And at this point I think I should note something. I am not a doctor. Nor do I play one on tv. I am a biologist, and a world-renowned bull-sh!ter, and thus I can make it __**sound**__ like I know what I am talking about, but for your sake and as well as mine, don't go looking to verify any of the medical stuff in this story… haha, it won't be true. I am making stuff up as I go, and I apologize to any of you genuine medical personal out there reading this. However, as with most stories I write, it's not the nitty-gritty technical stuff that's important, it's what's happening with the characters. And I've attempted to write in a clear way so you know what's going on. Anyways, after that small warning… I hope y'all will continue to read and enjoy this story! Thanks!_

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"I found it," Jesse ran into Steve's room where Mark was currently adjusting his IV.

"The son?" Mark eagerly asked, his eyes wide.

"Yes," Jesse handed a folder to Mark and spoke what he'd memorized, "His name is Casey Harding and he's thirty-one. He's in room 243 down the hall and has been there since admittance two and a half weeks ago. Casey started out with the same symptoms as Steve minus the blow to the head. Uncontrollable BP, high heart rate, the potassium and nitrogen in the blood work and the blisters."

"What happened to him next?" Mark was scared to hear the answer and refused to open the file to look.

Jesse swallowed hard, "On day two he had a massive stroke. He went into a coma after that and hasn't woken since. But his condition has continually gone down; just in the past three days his blood pressure and heart rate have gone in the opposite direction, and they've been trying to keep it up because it keeps dropping. They don't think he's going to last through the weekend."

Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "We need to stop this Jesse. I won't let Steve die."

"He won't Mark," Jesse placed a comforting hand on his arm, "We'll figure this out."

Mark now looked at the file, "It says the father is Aaron Harding…"

"The police are already on the way to his house," Jesse confirmed then turned his attention to Steve, "How's he doing?"

"He's sleeping right now," Mark looked down at the red face of his son, "I gave him some sedatives as well a full dose of clopidogrel to bring down his BP. It's sitting at 130/92 right now and holding so I-I think that he'll be alright for now. But we can't push it too much or he could go the opposite direction and bleed out from the sores. It's a fine line we're walking Jess."

"You're right," Jesse moved over and looked at Steve's chest; the blisters had opened up to nasty, oozing wounds, "Do you have him on anything for the pain?"

"Morphine," Mark looked sad, "But I don't think it's helping much. He's still in pain even while sleeping."

"How can you tell?"

Mark laughed softly, "I'm his father. He hides his fear and pain well, but when he's sleeping I can read it as clear on his face as if he were telling me."

Almost as if on que, Steve shifted in his sleep, moaned out in pain, and opened his eyes up.

"Steve," Mark took one large step forwards so that he was standing directly beside Steve's head, "Just take it easy."

The monitors began to beep as Steve's heart rate and blood pressure elevated into the danger zone.

"Dad," Steve moved the oxygen mask from his mouth, "What's happening?"

"Steve, keep that on!" Jesse was the one who spoke and made sure the mask was in place and then went about increasing the medication dripping into the IV, "You need to take deep breaths and relax."

"Jesse's right son," Mark brushed his hand over Steve's head, "You're very sick right now, and the more stressed you get the worse it'll become."

"This wasn't just a hit on the head, was it?" even while sick, Steve's cop instincts began to take over.

Mark internally let out a sigh of relief as the extra medication started to work, "No it's not."

There was a long pause in which Mark and Jesse shared a look and wordless conversation. On one hand they could tell Steve exactly what was happening and that someone had intentionally poisoned him. But that could dramatically increase his stress. On the other hand, Mark knew his son, and knew that simply not knowing what was happening wouldn't be good for him either.

"Dad, tell me," Steve was breathing hard, and felt his head spinning.

"Someone injected you with a virus," Mark carefully explained, "His son was infected by the same thing, and so wants me to find a cure by making you sick as well."

At this Steve attempted to sit up more, and suddenly four hands were holding him down.

"I'm fine," Steve grunted struggling against them, "Did you get the guy?"

Mark nodded, "We got him, don't worry. I just need you to concentrate on getting better."

A weary smile crossed Steve's lips, "I thought that was your job."

Mark gave a forced laugh.

"Dad, I'll be fine," Steve reassured.

Mark cleared his throat of emotions, "I know you will son. In the mean time I want you to rest and not worry about anything."

"I'm a cop, that's hard to do," Steve's voice was growing weaker by the minute, "And Dad… I need you to leave the investigating up to the police. I don't want you getting caught in this."

Mark swallowed hard and spoke in a voice he wasn't even sure Steve heard, "I already am."

~DM~

Mark slowly pushed open the door to room 243. Immediately the soft humming of monitors and the slow beeping of Casey Harding's heart entered the doctor's ears. Almost involuntarily Mark then looked over at the patient, and let out a quiet gasp. The thirty-four year old lay deathly still covered to his waste by a white sheet. The soars which had previously covered his chest had turned into crusted scabs; several of which looked to be currently infected. Mark took a further step into the room to get a closer look at the monitor readings.

Pulse 51.

Blood pressure 91/47.

"God no…" Mark swallowed as he then took the chart and read through things quickly.

Jesse had been right; Casey wasn't going to last through the weekend. Casey's doctor, one Dr. Higgins, was giving him the highest dosage possible to control his vitals but nevertheless they were dropping. Fast.

Mark felt tears prickle curiously at his eyes; this was going to be Steve soon.

Placing the chart back, Mark half stumbled out of the room. A sudden nauseous feeling enveloped the doctor and he was forced to make a quick beeline to the doctor's lounge less than fifty feet away. Once in he went to the bathroom and promptly got sick. Now the tears did fall down his face.

"Mark?"

The soft voice was followed by the door opening.

"Mark, it's alright," Amanda walked into the room and gently crouched down and put an arm around him.

Mark's body trembled slightly as he closed his eyes and spoke close to a whisper, "Casey is going to die Amanda. And there's nothing that can be done to stop it."

"Casey is not Steve," Amanda emphasized.

"But he is," Mark looked desperately at his friend, "Aaron Harding injected the same thing into Steve and…" Mark was forced to clear his throat, "And I don't know how to help him."

Mark got onto wobbly legs, and Amanda helped him over to one of the seats. She sat across from him and looked at him in the eyes.

"Mark, he will be okay," she assured, "I've been looking at Casey's file, and there's at least a half dozen treatments that can still be tried that haven't. And if we can figure out exactly what kind of virus it was that he was infected with we can look for the right antibodies that way. I will do anything I can to help."

"Thank you sweetie," Mark spoke at a near whisper, silent tears still marking their way down his suddenly aged face.

"In the meantime, you need to get some sleep," Amanda instructed, "You are no good to Steve in your state right now."

"I can't leave him," Mark impulsively and aggressively stated.

"You _need_ sleep," Amanda used her sternest Mom voice, "Now just go to your office where it's quiet, and I promise to wake you up if anything happens with Steve, or if we hear anything more on how Casey is doing." She paused. "Please Mark."

"You promise you'll come get me at the first sign of anything?"

Amanda smiled, "Yes."

Mark reluctantly nodded and got out of the chair. Maybe a few hours rest would help.

~DM~

Jesse ran his hand over his face and let out a breath as he leaned against the hospital wall. This was bad. He knew it from the second he saw Steve when they'd first walked into his room after getting the call at Mark's beach house. Steve was good at hiding his ailments and injuries, but Jesse was better. As time had progressed, Steve's condition had exponentially gotten worse and Jesse felt the same helplessness as Mark.

"C'mon Casey," Jesse now spoke softly to himself as he walked into room 243, "Give me something to help Steve."

The man lay ashen and quiet, and for a moment Jesse saw Steve laying there. A quick squeeze of the eyes shut later, and the man was once again Casey. As had Mark only an hour earlier, Jesse went around and looked at all the monitors and the readings.

"This is bad," Jesse whispered, "Really bad."

At the stage the patient was at, Jesse knew, they'd be telling the family that his time was at the end. To say their last goodbyes, give him the last rites, and to simply be there. Casey Harding had no family here. His father was, with any luck, currently in police custody, and his mother had died when Casey was twelve. This man was going to die alone, and Jesse feared this more than anything. Not only because he hated seeing someone die with no one there to comfort them in their last moments, but he also knew that if Casey died, then Steve's chances of pulling out of this dropped substantially.

"Just try and hold on a little longer," Jesse placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Casey's arm, "We're trying to figure this out."

But life was cruel and unfair. Jesse had learned that at a young age; his prom date dumping him a week before the prom. His parents finally letting him get a dog, only to have to give it away when his Dad became allergic. His Grandma going into remission from cancer, only to die in a car crash the next day. Life wasn't fair, and no matter how much Jesse tried to remind himself of that, it always caught him off guard.

Casey Harding was dead seven minutes after Jesse walked into the room.

…_to be continued…_


End file.
